


Working Week and Sunday Rest

by DrOlShakes



Series: Out of Time [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Captain America - All Media Types, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Captain America!AU, F/M, Rickon Stark: Rage Baby Extraordinaire, Shireen Baratheon is a BAMF, gratuitous use of literary quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrOlShakes/pseuds/DrOlShakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love story. Inevitable.</p><p> </p><p>---<br/>A oneshot about Rickon and Shireen's relationship in my Captain America universe. I would recommend reading the main story first but if you really don't want to, I guess you could just read that one's description and then wing it. Or maybe just the part in chapter 3 where Shireen and Sansa talk about Rickon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working Week and Sunday Rest

**Author's Note:**

> I want to give a shout out to Dragolord who said that they wanted to know what happened in Prague. It got me thinking. So thanks.

 

* * *

 

_He was my North, my South, my East, my West,_

_My working week and my Sunday rest._

_-W.H. Auden, Funeral Blues_

 

Loving Rickon Stark had never come easy. It's not that he was hard to love, only that it took so much to love him. He was- chaotic, Shireen knew; his codename, Wilding, more than fitting. It made loving him something all-consuming, something that couldn't be done in half measures. Loving Rickon Stark was to give everything that she had because loving Rickon Stark had never been a choice. The love crashed on Shireen like gravity. It was made of stardust and nebula and it made her feel like she'd loved him her whole life and she had only been waiting for him to finally come home to her.

 

* * *

 

_They stepped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered._

_-F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise_

 

By the time Shireen Baratheon met Rickon Stark, it was 1993 and she was 25 and working her way up the SHIELD food chain. She'd never had anything much in the way of relationships: an absent father, a cloying mother, some distant cousins and a few mistakes in college. It left a lot of time for school and figuring out what she wanted. She'd been thinking FBI originally, doing forensic analysis or something similar. She was living in DC, training at the academy, when SHIELD held a memorial for the Howling Commandos and Shireen got dragged to it. Somehow one thing led to another and she was shaking hands with a severe looking man in an eye patch and then she was at SHIELD.

 

By the time Shireen Baratheon met Rickon Stark, she was already doing field missions, mastering fighting techniques and living alone with a cat and spending most nights with her paperwork.

 

Rickon Stark shined like a god. And then she realized what an utter adorable dumbass he was and she was gone on him.

 

When Shireen Baratheon realized that she was in love with Rickon Stark, they were sitting in some dive Brooklyn bar that had apparently been around since before even he had been born. Watching his throat swallow down whatever had been on tap, Shireen saw a drop of condensation drip down the ridges of his knuckles and felt an overwhelming, palpable need to kiss it off of his skin. Followed closely on the heels of that thought was _I love you_ and then _oh damnit_. Then Rickon had the horrible timing to turn to her, take in the panic on her face, and give her that grin, like he hadn't been at war for half a century and was still a boy and she thought _oh Jesus Christ I love you_ and finished off her glass of whiskey.  

 

That'd been two months before the mission in Prague and it had been two months of terror because Shireen had been avoiding love all of her life. She didn't like it, the heavy swoop that came with Rickon, the heavier drop when he left. It made her- vulnerable, in a way that Shireen had tried to train out of herself.

 

Rickon Stark sauntered into her life with a smirk on his face and ferocity in his stance and loneliness in his eyes and Shireen hadn't stood a chance. Not when he looked at her and glanced at her scars and then nodded like it was nothing and of course they were nothing because he'd fought in Vietnam and there was nothing that could compare to that.

 

And then came Prague. It wasn't her first solo mission with Rickon but it was the first one that turned into a disaster. There were bullets flying, explosions, smoke, rubble falling from old stone buildings and Shireen was out of ammo. She was also pretty sure that there were two bullets lodged in her thigh and she maybe had a small concussion and where the _hell_ was Rickon with the detonator?

 

The mission had gone so far sideways that it had a whole new center of gravity and it was, without a doubt, the most hopeless fight that she'd ever been in. It should have been a simple in and out mission; grab Dr. Lukin and get to the extraction point. Then it turned out that Dr. Lukin was actually the head of an international smuggling operation and the “in and out” turned into a “burn it to the ground and salt the earth.” Even that would have been manageable except Rickon _fucking_ Stark had gone and made it personal. Dr. Lukin had been running girls and running them hard and Rickon, well, he'd lost it. Shireen had watched him steel over and then watched him earn his name.

 

And that was fine. Shireen understood that. Except now she was crouched behind an honest to god wooden barrel for cover with nothing but a bowie knife and an empty clip and she'd rigged the bridge to explode except that dumbass had the detonator.

 

“I'll meet you at the bridge,” Shireen grumbled, her voice in a fake baritone. “We'll blow it when I'm on the other side.” A bullet burst through the wood by her head and Shireen dropped to her stomach, squirming towards the pile of rubble to her left. “Just wire the bridge, Shireen,” she huffed. “It'll be easy, Shireen.”

 

By the bit of rubble, and thank god for small favors, was the bag she'd lost in the first explosion and wouldn't you know, there was no ammo but there was a grenade. Quickly glancing over the pile of rocks, Shireen saw a clump of soldiers, dropped back down, pulled the pin and lobbed it at them, hollering “Na zdrowie,” which wasn't even Czech and didn't really make sense but damnit she was exhausted, concussed and shot.

 

And then the bridge blew, which, hey, great, except Shireen had been forced back into the blast radius during the fight and the swell of the explosion sent her rocketing into a stone wall and now she definitely had a concussion and she was going to murder Rickon-has-an-unhealthy-addiction-to-explosions-Stark and the horse he rode in on. Then a slab of rock fell on her leg- the leg that hadn't been shot and wasn't that just peachy- and she howled.

 

In back of the pain coursing through her body, Shireen heard four gunshots and then it was silent except for the heavy patter of feet. It didn't even occur to Shireen to worry if it was an enemy because it was taking everything she had not to just pass out- and then there was a heavy hand on her shoulder shaking her and Shireen screamed again.

 

Sound came back to her distantly, an urgent voice: “Shireen? Fuck, fuck- fuckin'- okay, okay-” and then the weight was off of her leg,  “Oh god, Shireen- no, I'm gonna- you're gonna- oh fuck, fuck, I love you, don't- don't-” and she was being wrangled into someone's lap which was pleasant for a moment until a flash of pain spiked up her side and she cried out.

 

“Can you walk?” he asked and Rickon's face swam up and Shireen bit back a hysterical laugh.

 

“Of course I can't walk,” she grumbled instead. “Because some dumbass said he'd wait to blow the bridge.”

 

Then Rickon lifted her up and oh, he was nice and warm but smelled like sweat, blood and soot but then again so did she so Shireen curled into him all the same.

 

Later, she was lying on the bed in a safe house, drowning in one of his t-shirts, one leg in a splint,  the other with stitches, Rickon sitting at her side and when he pulled a slug out of his calf she remembered what he'd said to her. “Hey jerk,” she mumbled through the pounding headache. “I love you back.”

 

The grin he showed her then was so young that Shireen ached at it. He slapped on a bandage before sliding down to curl around her gently. “Yeah?” he whispered into her ear.

 

“Yeah,” she said. “All of you, every last bit.”

 

“You gonna be my best girl?” Rickon nuzzled the back of her neck and Shireen could feel his smile.

 

Shireen groaned: “Best girl? Isn't that a little paleolithic?”

 

“You said all of me, dollface. Let me pour some sugar on you.”

 

“Careful, baby boy. You're getting your decades mixed up,” she laughed and then immediately whimpered at the pain in her ribs. Rickon stroked his fingers down her arm, gentler than she thought he was capable of.

 

“Hazards of old age,” he murmured and then sighed. “Okay, okay. So best girl is out. What do I get to call you?”

 

“No, no, no. Best girl? Best girl is very much in. But you call me dollface again and we are through, mister.”

 

“Aw, c'mon, dollface. Angle, babydoll. C'mon, sugar, you rationed?”

 

“Oh, god. That's awful. That line is awful!” Shireen grinned.

 

“That's just because you never had a sugar ration. If you'd a' been there-”

 

“It'd still be a terrible line.”

 

“If you'd been there-” he spoke over her, “you'd be calling me a chucklehead but secretly swooning and thinking I was killer diller.”

 

“I refuse to believe that that's a real phrase.”

 

“Put your glad rags on, sweetheart, we'll cut a rug, set the night on fire, raise the roof, get freaky with it.”

 

“You're just one huge modpodge of slang, aren't you?” Shireen asked, closing her eyes and smiling, thrilled.

 

“All the way, darling. All the way down.”

 

“Alright, tell me 21st Century Man, did anyone actually say daddy-o?” Shireen teased and he surprised her by burying his head in her neck and gasping, “How'd I get so damn lucky?”

 

Reaching back gingerly, Shireen wrapped her fingers around his thigh, holding him tight to her: “I don't know, baby. I guess it was just your turn.”

 

“You are, you know? My best girl. My best damn girl. I was drownin' before I met you.” Shireen could hear the desperation in his voice and she wanted to comfort him but he had to know, needed to know-

 

“Don't. Don't put that on me.”

 

“What?”

 

“I can't carry you, Rickon. I'll walk next to you and we can lean on each other but if you're looking for a savior, or a breath of new life or whatever a supersoldier needs to be convinced that life is beautiful again- I won't be that. Don't ask me to save you.” It tasted bitter to say but he needed to know that.

 

“I wouldn't be much of a soldier if I needed saving,” he joked and Shireen kept quiet because she had to know that he understood. After a moment, he sighed again and buried himself deeper against her neck. “No, I mean it. I've been swimming in this for a long time and the truth is that I'm going to still be swimming when you're dead because- because I think I'm going to live for centuries. I've buried a lot of people that I love, Shireen. I'm not asking you to save me. Just- just swim for a little bit.”

 

Shireen let that sit heavy on her for a moment, tried to grasp the reality that if she stepped into this with Rickon, they would never grow old together. They would never have anything normal. And then she took his hand, brought it around and pressed her lips against it. “I think I prefer the sweet talking,” she said and it came out choked.

 

His fingers tightened around hers and she could tell he wanted to hold her closer and it hurt that he couldn't, not yet. Then he spoke, so quiet she almost missed it, “All of me?”

 

“Yeah,” Shireen said and kissed his hand again. “All of it.”

 

 

* * *

 

_History works itself out in the living._

_-Louise Erdrich, The Plague of Doves_

 

Rickon hadn't been home in almost 72 hours and Shireen had passed the point of worry or concern and instead there was just the fury roiling around inside of her. She hated it; not that he'd left- he'd come back- it was that he didn't talk to her sometimes.

When these moods came over him, the kind that meant he was going to put on all black, a mask and scour the streets for anyone idiot enough to be hurting someone, he closed up to her. It wasn't that she blamed or resented him for it, only that she thought she'd earned more than what he was giving her.

 

There'd been a letter and it'd made Rickon turn red and wild, chaos rippling through him. She'd known immediately that he was going to go out that night, known it by the way his shoulders stiffened and fists coiled. He'd grabbed a lighter and set the letter on fire and something like manic satisfaction set in but Shireen had known that it wouldn't be enough. She didn't try to stop him from leaving. Rickon had crawled out the window and she'd huffed, reminding him that they had a front door for a reason.

 

And nearly three days later there was a thump upstairs and that meant- “Goddamnit, Rickon,” Shireen muttered, abandoning her beer bottle to rush up the stairs. She was ready for the fight, ready to break him down and let him know that she didn't appreciate being left out in the cold like this- and then there was blood on the carpet and all down his ribs and a gash over his eyebrow and Shireen felt the rage leak out of her.

 

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, getting an arm under him and hauling him up. He came like a slab of meat and if Shireen was any weaker this would have been impossible. Rickon was so much bigger than her, almost laughably so, but they had a lot of practice at this.

 

She led him into the bathroom and he collapsed on the toilet. Hissing, he pulled off his shirt and Shireen winced at the mess of bruises all over his chest and stretching down his stomach. Whoever he'd found tonight hadn't been kind. There was a cut over his ribs and Shireen got out the cleaning tools and needle for stitches. At least seven by her count.

 

Kneeling down in front of him, Shireen started to clean the wound. “You want to tell me who did this to you?” she asked, not really expecting an answer, surprised when she got one.

 

“Found a dog fighting ring, couldn't let it stand. Things got a little out of hand.”

 

Shireen looked at him and smiled- a little bit proud. He looked back at her with tired eyes.

 

Shireen started in on the stitches. Her hands were sure; she and the needle were old friends. It'd taken a long time to get used to, the flawless plains of Rickon's body. She'd seen him burned, shot, stabbed, ripped open and his body healed as easy as breathing. Not like hers. She was cut up and scarred. SHIELD work left its marks like a brand.

 

“How about why you left? You want to tell me about that?”

 

For a long moment, Rickon didn't say anything but Shireen felt the rage come back to him, felt it in the way that his muscles tensed and the way his skin heated up. “They're making another movie,” he bit out between clenched teeth. “This one all about Sansa. They want-” he broke off, his throat working around the words. “They want me to come on set and be a consultant. And that Tyrell fucker is producing it.”

 

“The same one who signed off on making those Howling Commando action figures?”

 

Rickon nodded and Shireen ran her fingertips across his chest, trying to soothe what she could. Suddenly his fist slammed down on the counter, splitting the tile, leaving crumbles of dust. “Godfuckingdamnit! I hate this shit!” He met her eyes and they stung of hatred. “You know what they wanna name it? _Babydoll_. They wanna name it _Babydoll_ and it takes place during the war and they've got her in France teaching ballet to kids in a bomb shelter like she- like she never did nothin' for this damn country except bat her eyelashes at the troops.”

 

Shireen knew that this wasn't the first time Rickon had gone through this. Not by miles.“She's my family, Shireen,” he pleaded with her and Shireen didn't know what for. “Sansa practically raised me. She gave everything for the rest of us- every last bit. She worked three jobs for six years just to make up for what Ma and Pa didn't give a damn about and now this fucking Tyrell piece of shit thinks that he owns her just 'cause his dad thought he loved her. Christ, it makes me sick.”

 

Shireen understood, or at least tried to. It was hard though because Sansa Stark- all of Rickon's family- they were made up of stories. She remembered being a kid and seeing the news of Bran Stark's death, remembered her mom crying over it and the endless newsreels and then it came out about Jojen Reed and the nation lost it's mind. She wondered, not for the first time, how Rickon stood through that alone; how he bore being the last of them. How he bore losing them to time and then to history. She wondered which had hurt more.

 

But she didn’t have anything to say to Rickon, didn’t know how to be a balm to him. Instead, she sewed him up and then started to dab at the rest of his scrapes. It was almost ritual by now; they traded off cleaning each other up like weekly chores. They didn't run missions together often- things got too emotional that way- but they each came home dirty and hurting and desperate for a touch that wasn't going to end with pain. It was what she offered him now because this was as hurt as she had ever seen him. He had wounds in places that she didn't know how to touch so she ran the towel under water and dabbed at the ones that she could.

 

“I wish I knew how to stop them,” Rickon said, breaking the silence. “I'd kill them all if I could.” He met her gaze then, hard, and she knew he meant it. The look was a challenge, daring her to tell him he was wrong for wanting it. She nodded at him.

 

He stayed quiet after that and let Shireen clean him up, let her drag him into their wide shower and when he got on his knees and hooked her leg over his shoulder, she let herself get lost in it. She knew it was his way of apologizing for leaving for three days, for the broken counter, for all of his failures. Shireen took it from him like she always did, greedy for it, for every drop of him.

 

The tension didn't leave him though, heavier than it normally was. In bed that night, Shireen traced the already healing cuts with her finger, the bruises already faded into a blotchy yellow. There were words working their way out of him, just not ready yet. Rickon was like that. His words came fast on the heels of anger, quick on a joke but other things, painful things, they took longer, like he had to make sure that they were right before he could say them. Over the years, Shireen had learned not to ask, not to rush him, so she waited instead.

 

They came when she was on the cusp of sleep, still splayed over his chest. He took a breath and it shuddered and Shireen had the horrible realization that whatever he was about to say, it scared him. It terrified him to the marrow in his bones. “Do you think Sansa would forgive me?” he asked, voice small in a way she'd never heard before. “For what I let them do to her? Do you think she'd-” and then he cut off because sometimes thoughts like that were too cruel out loud.

 

“I think she'd love you no matter what.” And even if she'd never known Sansa, never would, it was still a truth.

 

Rickon didn't say anything to that because maybe there was nothing to say, maybe he didn't know how to believe that yet. There was doubt in his eyes and that scared look hadn't left him yet and finally, Shireen knew exactly what to say: “I do too, you know. I love you all the way down.”

 

Another breath shuddered through him, this boy that she loved, and then he rolled them over on their sides and curled around her tight like she was a lifeline: “Me too. All the way down.”

 

 

* * *

 

_“That would be fine,” she said. “If we’re alone, we’ll leave the lamp lighted so that we can see each other, and I can hold you as much as I want without anybody’s having to butt in, and you can whisper in my ear any crap you think of."_

_-Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude_

 

“Ah Christ, sweetheart,” Rickon moaned, his fingers threaded deep in her hair and she loved that she could get him like this, all rubber-limbed and trembling. Shireen worked her throat around him, her hand around what she couldn't take. She loved that he let her have the control, that even though he had his hands tight on her head he never tried to take over. It was intoxicating and she hummed, stretching another moan out of Rickon. “Oh honey, kitten, doll,-” and the names came spilling out of him like they always did, tongue thick with his Brooklyn accent. “You gotta let me, you gotta- please” and she pulled off of him, smirking.

 

“C'mon, baby,” she husked and splayed out on the bed, spreading her legs. “C'mere.” Rickon groaned and like gravity, he came to her. He laid the bulk of his body over her and Shireen keened at the familiar weight. His mouth found hers and Shireen loved the press of him and she died for it every time she snagged his plump bottom lip between her teeth. Loving Rickon like this, feeling him across every inch of her, this part was easy. It comes down to bodies and nothing more. Everything thing else was blighted out by the heat of it all.

 

Shireen was grateful, she was so damn grateful that it was him here with her and that he loved her in a way that she hadn't even known existed. His touch burned her up and when Rickon mouthed down her neck, nipped at her collarbone before finally settling on one dusky nipple, he groaned again and Shireen rocked her hips up into his. Rickon pressed his lips down, mouthing words against her body: “Sweet girl, my best girl,” and it lit something up in Shireen. It drove her crazy when her boy talked like this, even after all the years. It drove her right up the wall and her head snapped back against the pillow.

 

And when she couldn't take it anymore, when he got the peaks of her nipples spit-slick and shining and she was wailing, Shireen braced her thighs around him and flipped them over. With his body on display beneath her, there was nothing for it but to rub her hands all across him. She’d never seen pictures of what he looked like before he got the serum, had never known any body but this one, and it was a delight every time. Cords of muscle ran down his thighs, his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. He dwarfed her and she loved it like this; him on his back staring up at her like he’d never seen anything so wonderful.

 

Teasingly, Shireen rolled her hips over the thick line of his cock. She reveled in the slick slide of him. His hands came up and gripped her tight. Fingers dug into the tender flesh of her hips and when he slipped his thumb down to rub her clit, her breath stuttered with it. Rickon's eyes crawled over her body like he was starving for it and this- this was what Shireen loved most about having him in her bed. It was adoration in his eyes. There was no other word for it.

 

Rickon had  high walls and they were made of steel. He had anger for days and he went wild with it sometimes but right now he was pliant beneath her. He let go of all of it just to grab at the pleasure he knew she could give him. The way his voice went husky, for once the words tumbling out of him sweet with sugar instead of being all hard edges- Shireen went mad for it.

 

He had big blue eyes, bluer than the day was long, and they stared up at Shireen, pleading with her and he was making hurt little noises and running a hand all up and down her body. “Baby,” he whimpered, sweet as anything. “Baby, please- sugar, let me-”

 

Finally, she took him in hand and angled him right. When she sunk down, it was like the air got punched out of him but Shireen wasn’t any better with her head thrown back and a long, wrecked moan slipping out of her. “Christ, yeah, move for me, angel, you gotta move for me. All I need, gimme a little, just a little,” his voice was breathy and desperate so Shireen gave it to him.

 

She teased him first, wanted to drive him crazy with it until he forgot that there had ever been any wars or any reason for him to be lonely. She wanted to draw all those wrecked, pleading sounds out of him and then when he couldn't take it anymore, when he was begging her for it, then she'd roll her hips in the way he loved.

 

Shireen rode him hard, rode him long and let herself get lost in it. As much as she loved watching Rickon lose himself under her, she knew that what really got him was watching _her_ fall apart. Dipping forward, she propped herself up on his hard chest and bore down on him.

 

The air filled with the sound of their pants. It smelled like sweat and arousal and Shireen scratched her fingernails across his ribs and it made him yell. His hands flew to her hips again, clutching tight enough to leave red marks on her and Shireen loved it; loved feeling him lose control. They marked each other up every time in an attempt to get closer, stake their claim.

 

“Yeah, yeah, that's- oh baby you feel so damn good,” he breathed and started to drive up into her. “God, you got me-” and then he wrapped his arm around her tight, yanking her down until she pressed flush against his chest. Shireen didn't like feeling trapped, not after that mission in Venezuela with the cave-in, but this- Rickon's strong arms fused around her and his cock slamming into her- it was safety and home all wrapped up in one. “Swear to god you're gonna kill me, baby. Gonna be the death of me,” he panted into her ear.

 

It was like a drug the way that those words unraveled Shireen. They made her smirk and nip at his neck: “Yeah, you like that, baby?” and pressed her breasts against him and made him feel how stiff her nipples were from rubbing against his coarse chest hair.

 

When Rickon only whined in response she knew that she had him good. He only got speechless when he was close to the edge, ready to take the dive. He forced his hand in between their bodies and started to rub at her clit again, fast and hard just like he knew she liked. The scream it wrenched out of her filled the room and she thought she might pass out from it.

 

“Like that, like that, baby right there-” the words came out breathy and stuttered and spilling out of her. “Pleasepleaseplease-”

 

Rickon came with a shout. His muscles tensed and his hands gripped even harder. Shireen forced her eyes up to watch; Rickon was achingly beautiful when he came. His eyes clenched and his nose wrinkled up. The sheen of sweat on his skin made him shine and she didn't even notice that he'd stopped moving. Rickon coming was art, it was a Picasso, it was a Kandinsky, it was the damn Mona Lisa and she could never look away from it.

 

He'd barely come down from it when he suddenly hauled her up his body, settling her knees on either side of his head and pulling her down and then his tongue was nudging inside of her, lapping. One hand flying to the headboard, the other winding into his hair, Shireen ground her hips against his face. And it was- “Oh you're perfect, love you like this, look so good like this” because he did. Rickon always ate her out so earnestly, like giving her this was all he was made for.

 

The orgasm crashed over her and Rickon moaned when her grip tightened and she pulled his hair taught. Her thighs quivered around his ears as he eased her through it. She tingled all over, the feeling running down her legs and out through her toes.

 

Collapsing backwards, she managed to land an elbow in his stomach and Rickon groaned. “You always gotta have perfect aim?” he asked, shoving her off of him playfully. She rolled with it, her legs somehow getting tangled  up with his arm but he didn’t push her away and she reveled in the way that he stroked her calf. Rickon propped himself up on his elbows and his gaze was steady and the love in his eyes was more than she ever expected to get out of life.

 

His smile was soft in a way that it rarely was. It was gentle like a breeze and warm like the sun on the beach. “Christ, you’re beautiful,” he said in wonderment. The words dug into Shireen, and even though they thrilled her they hurt, just a little bit. She was still young, not even forty, but inching closer. But there was already some gray in her hair and lines in her face because SHIELD, for all that she loved the job, had never been kind. Rickon had barely aged and he looked maybe 25, maybe just a little older. But he loved her and when he ran his hands over her weathered body it was with the same reverence from years ago.

 

Her smile turned wobbly and she forced the words out; “You’re not too shabby yourself, soldier.” She stroked his chest with her foot and he brought a hand up to clasp her ankle.

 

His eyes turned suddenly giddy; “Post-mission sex is the best kind there is.”

 

“Well, god knows we’ve had enough of it to know,” Shireen agreed.

 

Then, desperate- “Five weeks is too long, sweetheart. Can hardly stand it when you’re gone-” and then he clamped down, stamping down his vulnerability like he always did, even with her. “How was Afghanistan? Still sandy as fuck? You managed to get a tan this time, brought back a couple of freckles. You know I can’t stop myself when you’ve got freckles.”

 

Shireen laughed, pleased; “You’re awful.”

 

“Course I am. You’ve been telling me that for years.”

 

“Someone has to remind you and make sure that your head doesn’t get too big. National hero and all that.”

 

Rickon scowled and Shireen knew that something had happened; more history. Sitting up, she moved his chin to face her. “What is it?”

 

“They’re giving me another medal for that op in Libya.”

 

“Ceremony?”

 

“With all the brass in tow.”

 

Shireen sighed and stroked his face; she was never good at resisting those high cheekbones. Rickon tackled her then and they moved seamlessly together. He had a wild grin on and Shireen let the conversation die because he didn’t like to talk about those things. It sat too heavy.

 

“Love that you let me love you,” he said and it came out a little manic. “Let me love on you and get all your sweet little sounds.”

 

“See,” Shireen exclaimed around a grin, “this is why you’re awful,” and laughed when he nuzzled her neck.

 

 

* * *

 

_In the afternoon they came unto a land in which it seemed always afternoon._

_-Alfred Lord Tennyson, The Lotus Eaters_

 

“How the fuck did this even happen,” Shireen grimaced, thrusting a branch out of her way. She was tearing through the forest, the target still in sight but little more than a dot.

 

Beside her, Rickon was grinning and his eyes sparkled; “An actual stolen diamond plot!” he howled, giddy. “Straight out of a ‘50s movie. I swear, Clouseau is gonna show up any minute now!”

 

“That was the ‘60s,” Shireen shouted back and she was getting too old for this shit.

 

“Fine then, Cary Grant!”

 

“You should be so lucky!”

 

The thief was getting getting farther away and Shireen knew that she wouldn’t be able to catch him, but Rickon- “Will you just get him already. You’re faster than this!”

 

A look flashed across Rickon’s face and Shireen was startled find that it was hurt. But he sped up and bounded through the forest and up the hill. He grew smaller in the distance and Shireen felt a desperate need to call him back.

 

She found him later, the jewel thief with cuffs around his wrists and tranqued, the sound of the waterfall overwhelming. Rickon was standing at the edge of the cliff and his eyes were wide and dazzled. Shireen walked over to him and turned her eyes to the view and the breath rushed out of her.

 

She’d never been to Yosemite National Park, had hardly been to any parks in her life. She’d never thought that she’d get there by chasing a maniacal cat burglar through the woods and up a mountain. Shireen was used to taking what she could get though, to reaching out and grasping tight on the moments of respite that life offered her. The view in front of her- forest stretching on for miles and mountains cresting in the clouds- was something calm and wonderful in the chaos of their lives.

 

“Have you ever- I’ve wanted this my whole life,” Rickon spoke quietly, awed.

 

Shireen turned to look at him and there was a longing in his face that she’d come to associate only with memories of his siblings and a time when he hadn’t known how to hold a gun. She didn’t understand the look because there were things that Rickon kept locked up tight, even from her.

 

“I used to-” he began again before stopping and Shireen knew that whatever this meant to him, the splendor splayed out in front of them, it was something precious and dear and not for her. It wasn’t for this time.

 

She turned her eyes back to the view and gently slipped her hand into his. SHIELD evac would be arriving soon and they’d lose the moment. Shireen willed it to last just a little longer.

 

 

* * *

 

_We were never meant to survive._

_-Audre Lord, A Litany for Surviva_ l

 

In all her years, in all of her nightmares, Shireen had feared that Rickon would die before her. But not- not like this. Maybe a gunshot to the head or finally being caught in one of the explosions he loved so much or-

 

She sat by his bed and held his frail hand with its papery pale skin and forced down her fury. Rickon was sleeping and the cannula was fit snug and it made his face look like it was divided in half. HIs breaths were shallow and the doctors had all said-

 

“Goddamnit,” Shireen hissed and tried to shove the thoughts away. It was impossible though, so impossible to forget the sympathy in their eyes matched with their awe at getting to treat someone as famous as Rickon. He was an artifact, a fucking _specimen_ and Shireen wanted to shake their shoulders and beat the knowledge into them that Rickon was so much more, that there were layers and layers of him and to stop looking at him like a thing.

 

Her head fell against the bed and she tried pushing those thoughts away too, dropping Rickon’s hand. It didn’t help anything, didn’t stop Rickon’s body from falling apart, didn’t stop the serum's chemicals from ripping him apart from the inside. God, she’d rather it was a bullet or a fire or a collapsing building or anything but this.

 

His shoulders had shriveled in and he’d lost inches and his voice warbled and everything that she’d taken as a fact of the universe- Rickon’s colossal presence- was being torn away from her and there wasn’t anything that she could do.

 

Helpless and months away from being alone and it was like she was living in that cold childhood home again with silent dinners and heavy air. Her breath hitched and she stomped down on the tears because there had been enough of those. Too many.

 

There was hand in her hair suddenly; a touch so familiar and one that she’d thought she’d never lose. Her fingers dug into the bed sheet that smelled sterilized like everything else in this damn place. Shame spilled through her because it should be her- she should be the rock right now and instead it was Rickon soothing her. He was smoothing out all of her rigid folds like he’d done for years. The words spilled out of her before she could stop them; “I hate them. I hate them so fucking much.”

 

Rickon made a questioning sound, his hand momentarily pausing in her hair. “The doctors and the nurses and all the journalists desperate for a spectacle and-” and Shireen wished that she could stop but the words kept flowing, “and your parents. God, Rickon,” she raised her her head to look at him, “I hate your parents so much. I hate what they did to you and I hate that you’re suffering for it and that you’ve spent all of your life suffering because they cared so damn much about making the serum that they never saw what it did to your family and I hate that they were turned into these masters of science and-” the tears came and there was nothing for it.

 

“I know, sweetheart,” Rickon said and then took a deep breath and Shireen knew that he was building the courage to talk about what history chose to ignore. “I hated them too, for a while. They were- not there. Never had been and it’s a goddamn miracle that Sansa could hold the family together.” He paused and frowned. “I don’t know if I ever stopped-” and then he shut his mouth and that was it because even now, even at the end of everything, he couldn’t bring himself to dredge up that pain in his life. It made Shireen hate them more.

 

“But it brought me you,” Rickon said, surprising her. “They made me to last and I think, I think sometimes that I was made to meet you and love you and hold you close.”

 

Shireen couldn’t hold back the sob; in all their years he’d never, not once, said anything so tender.

 

“I was made for you,” he said and Shireen grabbed his hand and kissed it desperately. “You’re the best part of me and you’ve- you’ve gotta promise that you’re gonna be strong after-” Shireen whimpered and shook her head because it was too damn much. She didn’t want this talk, not tonight, not any night but Rickon soldiered on like he always did. “You swam with me a long time, sweetheart. We got our turn and it was good, Shireen, it was so good.”

 

The familiar fury boiled up in her then, not at Rickon, never at him, but at the whole damn world that had been destroying this man since the day he was born. Her hand tightened around his and he winced because she had forgotten that he was so much weaker now. “Centuries,” she hissed through the lump in her throat. “You promised me centuries.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry I’m so awful,” Rickon said in that sweet kind voice of his that meant he was trying to be gentle even though all he’d ever known was violence. “You love me anyway?”

 

A hysterical laugh bubbled out of her because it was the most ridiculous question she’d even been asked. “God, of course I love you. You’re, you’re- all the way down. I love you all the way down. Couldn’t stop if I wanted to.”

 

The words brought a smile to his face, something bright and genuine and Shireen was so proud that she could still make him do that. “I love you back. Always gonna be my best girl.”

 

“Always,” Shireen agreed and it rang true in the meat of her heart.

 

 

* * *

 

Shireen Baratheon buried Rickon Stark on a Wednesday. A couple of suits had tried to get him put in Arlington but Shireen wouldn’t hear of it. Rickon was a Stark and he belonged in Brooklyn.  There was a plot in Green Wood Cemetery with the rest of his family- two empty graves and four full- and there weren’t anymore of them.

 

 

* * *

 

Until there was.

 

* * *

 

_If the pale light of this January day be true,_

_I pledge myself to be faithful unto you,_

_Whom I can never stop remembering._

_-John Ashbury, A Blessing in Disguise_

-

 

Rickon Stark

1923-2010

Loved, Dearly

And Yet the Menace of the Years

Finds and Shall Find Me Unafraid

 

“Hey, baby boy. Sorry it’s been so long,” Shireen said to the headstone. She was sitting with her back against it, the fresh flowers by her side. The grave site was covered in them; each of the Howling Commandos had shrines surrounding them. During the day, tourists flocked to the graveyard so Shireen had to come at night, hopping the fence and skulking like she had no right to be there.

 

It’d made her mad at first, furious. But, really, it was kind of nice seeing how much people cared. People liked to leave little messages, all folded up like notes passed in school. The tradition had been around for years; you bring a note and something important to you and leave it on one of the graves. It was a way of giving back, of acknowledging everything that the Howling Commandos meant to the nation. To the lives of the people that they had worked to keep safe.

 

Shireen had thought about leaving a note. She hadn’t.

 

Picking at the grass, Shireen gave herself a moment to feel the loss all over again. She held herself so strong every day, keeping the hurt of it away from her. It was impossible to do the job otherwise but on these nights, she let herself burrow in it. She let herself think about how much she missed his laugh and the chaos that had brewed in him all his life and how his calloused hands had felt on her body and how sometimes he went reckless and wild and never lost his love for a good explosion.

 

She gave herself the moment and then steeled herself up again. She’d learned that lingering too long took too much out of her and left her dried up and aching. Taking a deep breath, Shireen said, “I’ve been keeping an eye on your sister just like I promised you. It’s- I’m not going to lie, Rickon, it’s exhausting. Rayder thought, _I_ thought, that since I’d known you that maybe I’d be able to reach her but- she has walls higher than yours ever were and I don’t know how to get past them.”

 

Shireen thought of the way Sansa held herself like she kept expecting the ground to crumble beneath her feet and the earth to swallow her whole. She thought of Sansa’s control and the distrust and the way that she wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, let anyone in. Except, no- Shireen laughed a little ruefully; “You’ll never guess who she’s taken up with. Clegane. I can’t say that I really understand it. He’s- well, you know what he’s like. But they seem to understand each other and Sansa needs that. They both do.”

 

She ran her hand through her hair and spilled the awful truth to Rickon; “I don’t know if she’s going to survive. But, you have to believe me, sweetheart, I’m doing my damn best to make sure that she does.”

 

“I couldn’t-” and Shireen felt tears welling in her eyes and hoped desperately that they wouldn’t fall. “I couldn’t save you and I- I let you down and that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. So I have to, I have to get this right.” Shireen dug her fingers into the soft, damp grass, clawing into it and squeezing tight. “I’m going to get this right.”

 

Shireen had made a lot of promises in her life. She’d kept most of them. None of them felt as important as this.

 

She sat for a while longer, silent. She’s said what she needed and silence, Shireen had discovered, sometimes silence was the most tender thing that she could give Rickon. She’d give him anything. She always had. Shireen had never had a choice.

 

_You visit me inside the apple._

_Together we can hear the knife_

_paring around and around us, carefully,_

_so the peel won’t tear._

_You visit me inside the apple_

_and you’ll stay with me inside the apple_

_unit the knife finishes its work._

_-Yahuda Amichai, Inside the Apple_

**Author's Note:**

> The epitaph on Rickon's grave is from the poem "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley which is probably the most "Stark-esq" poem I've ever read and just happened to fit in this universe.
> 
> Wanna find me on tumblr? drolshakes.tumblr.com


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